Author’s Note
This piece came from observation.
Not one specific moment—but the accumulation of small ones. Passing strangers. Shared routines.
Quiet exhaustion hidden behind ordinary expressions.
We move through the world carrying roles long before we’re allowed to ask who we are outside of them.
Provider. Caretaker. Worker. Parent. Partner.
And somewhere beneath all of it, the person can disappear.
This poem sits in that tension—between the natural world that continues without performance, and the human world built on expectation, pressure, and silent sacrifice.
Because sometimes the most fractured things are the ones that still appear functional.
— Rowan Evans
Roles Assigned
Poetry by Rowan Evans
Sun rises over misty mountains,
unaware of the tragedy below—
light rays pierce the canopy,
leaves fall from trees,
drifting in the breeze.
Down into bustling city streets—
the rhythmic thumping
of marching feet.
Horns blare,
unaware
of the fractured world.
Nature stays,
even though
we forgot our place.
Smiling face.
Façade.
Projected happiness
when everything is wrong.
Voices ring
like distant distractions,
gentle music humming
from open café doors.
A young couple
leans in close—
a laugh shared,
hands held.
Unaware
of the fractured world.
A single mother,
huddled in the corner—
a smile trying to hide
the emptiness in her eyes.
No one knows
the weight she carries.
Children’s laughter.
Distant yelling—
bellows
through apartment windows.
A husband.
A father.
A son.
A man
with too many titles.
A weight.
A stress.
Expectations
best left unsaid.
Taught
it’s his burden
to carry.
A mother.
A wife.
A daughter.
A woman
never given a voice.
A crack.
A fracture.
Losing herself
to give her family
the best.
Provider.
Caretaker.
Human beings
forgotten.
Roles assigned.
The sun sets
behind walls
of brick and concrete.
If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
Poetry by Rowan Evans 